


Poison Paradise

by sailaway



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Marvel Universe, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 17:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailaway/pseuds/sailaway
Summary: Maybe it's wrong, fucking an international arms dealer. But life is hard, and life is short. Is it so bad to find some spot of pleasure where you can?





	Poison Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I think I can't sink any further into my own personal dumpsterfire... I find a way to reach new lows. I have no explanation for myself. 
> 
> Shout out to my chat sinners. This one's for you.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it's wrong, working for an international arms dealer. But you aren't the only one around involved, somehow, in not-so-legal enterprises. Times are tough, and steady employment can be difficult to find way out here. The desperate turn to crime... or at least look the other way. It's better than back-breaking manual labor or drug running, or the pittance you might earn hawking meager vegetables eked out from the parched earth. When you got this job you told yourself it was okay, you were just hired help. Not a criminal. Just the kitchen girl.

Maybe it's wrong, fucking said international arms dealer. But life is hard, and life is short. Is it so bad to find some spot of pleasure where you can?

You'd been working on the dusty, isolated compound for a month before you ever saw Ulysses Klaue up close. You'd never given him much thought – after all, you were only a servant, and there were a dozen people in the staff hierarchy between you and him. But the cook was sick that night, and you had to scramble to finish the meal prep, and take her place alongside the maid in bringing the big platter of dishes out to the dining room.

Your boss was deep in conversation with a pair of unknown guests. Wealthy looking ones. As you entered he didn't stop talking but sized you up nonetheless, gaze narrowed with barely concealed interest. It wasn't a foreign look. You were used to rough men, and the things they like to take from women.

“Who's this pretty one?” Klaue interjected, accent choppy and flat, as the conversation lulled. Even in the low light his eyes were brilliant blue, dark head tilted back to assess you. His open collar exposed arcing black tattoos, disappearing into his shirt and weaving into view again beneath rolled up sleeves to wind over corded forearms. Reddening, you remained silent and focused on topping off the pitcher of water. His guests grinned to each other.

But he didn't grab you, and he didn't say anything else, and as you exited his attention was back on business.

That seems an age ago, now.

So sure, maybe it's wrong. But he doesn't hit you, and he'd never forced you, and he makes you smile and he makes you come and sometimes there's extra in your paycheck.

He isn't sweet with you, exactly – there are no honeyed words, no whispered secrets in bed, no declarations of adoration and eternal love. And you know there are probably other women, in other places. Powerful men seem unable to grasp the concept of fidelity. From the beginning you figured that Klaue's only morality was money, the gaining and keeping of it. You remind yourself you're not special.

But there are times when he'll toss you some trinket he'd picked up in the city, or chuck you under the chin and murmur, “good girl,” and you melt like butter in the summer sun.

This evening is cooler than usual and the kitchen windows are open, mosquito netting swaying in the breeze as you scrub the last of the dinner pots. You haven't seen Klaue in three weeks. He rarely discusses his work, and though you'd grown curious, you know prying about where he goes is utterly off limits. You shouldn't care about him when he's gone, but you still wonder what he's doing; and simultaneously, deep down, you hope you never find out.

There's a scuff of boots behind you and you turn to see a gruff guard with a rifle in the doorway. He jerks his chin in your direction.

"You. Come with me."

The presence of the guards always elicits a cold prick of fear. You've done nothing wrong, but these kind of people don't play around. But as you move through the maze of the compound the route becomes familiar to you, and your heart skips with anticipation, increasing in speed until the guard delivers you to the door of Klaue's personal living quarters. You wait as he knocks an announcement, then opens the door a crack for you to push it open the rest yourself.

Dimly lit as usual, his space is comfortable but simply furnished, consisting of a front room with an old couch and little round table and a cluttered desk, with a short hallway connecting to a bedroom and bathroom further back. Leaning against the desk is a figure in faded taupe fatigues, swigging amber liquor straight from the bottle.

"Hello, love," comes Klaue's rough voice and you bound forward to leap on him, wrapping your legs around his waist. He chuckles and sets the bottle down, supporting you with one arm and bouncing you up for a better hold. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

He smacks your ass with his other hand and you squeal, tightening your grip around his shoulders. After his journey from wherever he's been he's freshly showered, his damp beard tickling your cheek.

"Are you hungry?" you question, fiddling with the back of his collar, softened from many wears and washes. "I could make something special, today I went to the market – ”

"That's not what I want from you," he murmurs into your neck, nipping at the delicate skin. He turns and backs you onto the desk, invading the V of your thighs as your loose dress rucks up. A sheaf of papers flutter to the floor. He wastes no time claiming your mouth with his own, his kiss demanding and devouring, flexing impatient hips as one palm settles firmly over your breast. You press into it, caressing his face, drifting up along his scalp to where the bristle of his buzz meets the still-wet curls.

Your nipple pebbles at his insistent touch and he tweaks it through the thin fabric, hard enough to make you inhale through your nose. His hands are not gentle, skimming down your body to sink into your ass, but his aggression makes you shiver.

He scoops you in his arms again and turns to deposit you on the couch, his sturdy body coming up to cover yours as one knee slots between your legs. His mouth on your throat is forceful and intoxicating, the tender skin so sensitive and susceptible to him, like a chemical reaction rather than mere flesh on flesh. He hikes up your dress, pushing aside your flimsy panties and cupping your sex with his calloused palm.

"Wet already for me, darling," he teases into the hollow between your collarbones, rising up to tear down the panties and disentangle them from your legs. He doesn't hesitate before slipping his hands under your hips and licking a long, filthy stripe up your slit.

You wouldn't have guessed him to be a generous lover. The very first time, you'd suppressed your own flicker of excitement – drawn to him, but assuming he'd take his pleasure and be done with it. You'd been mistaken. It must be the power he likes, the satisfaction in having such intimate control... but it doesn't matter now, not with his tongue doing such unspeakable things – you can't hold back the stuttering whine, plunging your fingers into his hair. He never minds when you pull.

You're close, so close, and when he stops you whimper in protest – he laughs at that, running the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. Craven, you suck at the tip of it, and his eyes darken.

His belt buckle clicks in his deft hands, the metal cold on the warm skin of your inner thigh as he unzips his fly. You reach to untuck his shirt-tails but he catches your wrist; he smirks, watching you _want_ it, waiting for you to beg – and you do, moaning "please," and he promptly flips you onto your stomach.

His belt clinks again, accompanied by the rip of a condom wrapper. At the sensation of his generous cock slipping along the cleft of your ass you arch your back, squirming, your inner walls pulsing in readiness. He slides his arm under your waist and hauls your hips in the air, giving your ass a final slap for good measure and ghosting his fingers over the stinging spot.

The air rushes from your lungs at the torturous breach, the tantalizing burn, as your body stretches in surrender to him; he sets a punishing pace, snapping into you, hitting rock bottom each time. You can only cling to the armrest, each thrust forcing strangled gasps out of you and into the threadbare upholstery. He sifts one hand through your hair, nape to crown, making a handle of it; he yanks your head to the side, settling his weight on you and sinking teeth into the yielding flesh where shoulder meets neck.

You yelp in tangled pain and pleasure – that'll leave a mark – and grind your ass up into him. He lets out a growl of pleasure, his free hand delving beneath you to swipe over your clit; a few rough strokes are all it takes and you cry out into the couch cushion, clenching your fists in it, your climax swelling and cresting and carrying you into hazy, panting satisfaction.

It isn't long before he finishes with a ragged groan, driving into your sated body to the hilt. He braces his hands on either side of your head, his curls just barely brushing over your ear as he catches his breath. You look at his fingers, at the ink tracing the back of his hand up along his sun-browned arm.

He kisses you, then, in the dip just behind your jaw, and with a vague little thrill you think this is the first time he's done that after sex.

It doesn't mean anything. You know this. But it feels good right here, in this moment, and for now, that's enough.

“Did you miss me?” There's an expectant tone to the way he says it, a satisfied smug jocularity, wanting you to stroke his ego. You roll your eyes, so he can see, and he snorts out a laugh.

You can't help but laugh, too.

 

 

* * *

 


End file.
